


The Hounds’ Awakening

by Anne_Fairchild



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Drugged Riario, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 14:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15317475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anne_Fairchild/pseuds/Anne_Fairchild
Summary: Trying to banish Riario’s Sinner for good, Leonardo can think of only one simple way to soothe his sufferings. But selfish reasons factor in as well, tormenting Leo.





	The Hounds’ Awakening

He frightens me. Not because I fear the sinner attacking and physically wounding me, but because the saint wounded me long ago. That wound festers still, threatening to burst open and take my life, as duty has taken his.

I cannot walk away from him, as he couldn’t abandon me. He needs so much that I often doubt I could ever give him all of it. He’s been broken so many times the pieces will never fit back together exactly. Strange that it has always been the breaking that has brought us together. Yet with care, I believe I may have more purchase than others to mend him to a gentler design.

I release the irons and lower his body to the floor. The sinner has tormented him terribly. Perhaps, I think, the evil will let go now, with no further suffering at least for today. He won’t be able to keep on enduring this mental rape. I have to keep the man I know here with me, and drown that creature spawned by guilt and the Enemies of Man. They almost suceeded with me and that’s reason enough to hate them. But what they’ve done to him is monstrous.

I know I should keep the shackles on awhile yet, but I can’t. He is abused and bruised everywhere, bleeding, stinking of their torture and the bloody deaths they engineered upon him. He is deeply hurt, body and soul, and I ache watching him. He only sleeps now because he is exhausted and because I have given him a poppy draught.

I drag his dead weight to the pallet in the corner and roll him onto it. It’s not a proper bed, but better than where he struggled in restraint. I find a clean cloth, bring the bucket of water I filled this morning, and sit beside him on the blanket-covered straw.

He doesn’t react at all to the feel of the cool water and the cloth cleaning him. Better so, I tell myself. He isn’t watching me and questioning me. I can’t be sure any more what I’d say if he asked me what I was doing, or why.

His fine clothes are sweat-soaked and stiff with dirt and blood as I undress him. I must remove them to clean him properly and look after his wounds. When he wakes, he won’t thank me for that. His clothes are both his badge and his armor, and without them he will feel vulnerable.

I turn him onto his stomach and see the angry marks of a whip, or some kind of flail, across his back and buttocks. My stomach churns and I quell the urge to vomit. I move the cloth down his body, washing as gently as I can, following after with what salves and balms I have available.

I should not stop, for if I do, I’ll want to trace the lines of his lean, muscled back and tight, firm ass with my hands. I want so badly to touch him in ways that I shouldn’t. I rise and clamber away from him, disgusted at my thoughts. I find a clean shirt and put it on him, covering his nakedness.

The longer I watch him, the worse my torment. Yet if the Enemies would free Riario’s mind in exchange, I would bear the punishment. I would suffer much to see him no longer lost in this terrible darkness. He wants only to do good for his God, but has been led by selfish, corrupt, evil men. None of it has been his wilful doing, but I’m not sure he’ll ever believe that.

He stirs now, twitching fretfully. He might be hallucinating, dreaming, in pain or ill. When I place my hand on his forehead, it is somewhat warmer than it should be. All I can do is put a cool cloth there. I dare not put more drugs of any kind into his body.

A thought, hiding in the shadows, insinuates itself into my brain. _You know what you can do to soothe him_. Under the circumstances, it’s the one thing I should choose not to do. I have no idea what his feelings are, and it could tip him into permanent madness if he is repulsed by the thoughts and feelings behind the act.

Will I be such a fool as to do something dangerous because I so badly want to take away his distress? Will I be no better than every other man who has used him all his life, because it may also be the only way, and the only time, I will be able to give him the pleasure and reassurance _I_ want to? Is this merely selfishness? How can I know what I should do, or not do? I don’t believe in his God, the one who answers prayers and gives guidance, but I badly need direction at this moment.

He moans and tosses his head, muttering formless words. I brush the sweat-dampened hair from his forehead, and murmur a soothing word. At this, surprisingly, he quiets. I make my decision. _Girolamo, please understand why. It’s because I know of no other way to help you. Forgive me if I trespass unwanted._

I fold his shirttail back, and touch the skin of his taut belly lightly with my fingertips, stroking gently. At my first feel of the silky softness of his body hair, tantalizingly dark against his pale skin, I virtually shake myself to keep from burying my face in it. He is beautiful, every inch of him. I cannot help but see it, since it is the simple truth. For as long as he would sleep so, I could watch him, just to see his chest and belly rise and fall with each breath.

His cock also sleeps, nested within more dark silk. It’s as beautiful as the rest of him; longer than many, shorter than some, and of a girth that is elegant, not coarse. It would fit very well in my ass. I shiver with longing at the thought.

My hand dares to touch it, lightly, and the twin sacs beneath it. He sighs and his thighs relax, giving me more access. Holding my breath, I caress him gently. Far more gently than I deal with myself when I’m alone and the urge is upon me.

He feels like warm velvet in my hand as I stroke and rub him. He sighs again, louder, and lets out a small groan. I can feel myself responding to my desire for him, but I try hard not to; this isn’t about me.

His proud, strong face with its aquiline nose contrasts with his surprisingly pink full lips. In repose, their sweet softness torments me. He may not want me, nor any man or woman. What will I do then? I know the answer - love him anyway.

I torture myself further by taking him into my mouth, something I’ve fantasized about for a long time. He tastes of fine wine, of exotic spices, and himself - a pungency unlike any other. I practice all the skills I know of loving men on him, and he grows in my mouth. I milk him with tenderness until I feel his balls tighten in my hand. I gradually increase my efforts until feel his shaft contract, and then I’m tasting his saltiness, swallowing him, regretfully licking the last drips from his slit. I hold him until he’s soft once more, and then I let his organ go reluctantly, to lie again between his thighs.

He’d made no sound, so I believed him to still be unconscious - until I look up to see him watching me, his eyes soft and dream-like. I don’t know what to do - apologize, back away, run; my own erection is quite painfully visible.

“ _Artista_ , may I return the favor? You appear to be in some need.” His voice is hoarse and faint with exhaustion but it is his own, not the sadistic sinner’s. In his eyes I see the Girolamo I know.

“You don’t have to - I’m sorry. You don’t - “ I can’t get the words out. I feel the hot color of shame creep up my neck.

“No, I don’t have to,” he acknowledges softly. “But you did what you could to bring me peace - why should I not do the same for you, Leonardo?”

He has scarcely ever called me by my name. He can seduce me by word, gesture, or any regard. I move closer to him and untie my braies, freeing my cock.

“Don’t be gentle with me. I don’t deserve it or want it. I have trespassed on you when you couldn’t give your consent,” I tell him. Taking me at my word, in silence his hands possess me and, quickly and ungently but not cruelly, bring me to my release. I take far too much pleasure from it even so, and he can see that in my face - as I can see the tenderness in his.

I move to get up, to take my shame and need to a space where I can have the pretense of privacy if only for a few minutes. He grasps my wrist with what I perceive must be all his gathered strength. He says nothing. His eyes bore into me, into my soul. He tugs at me to stay. Helpless, I nod and lower myself to lie beside him. We do not touch at all, though we are so close we feel each other’s body heat. Privacy begins to seem less important to me now, as it seems to be for him.

What have I done - what have _we_ done? It goes ill to wake a sleeping hound, they say. What of two unleashed upon each other?

 


End file.
